MidWorld Jazz
by Todd B. James
Summary: Dark Tower, Cowboy Bebop crossover. Set in Roland's when after Little Sisters of Eluria, before The Gunslinger. May 2006: Updated! PG13 for violence, some language.
1. The End of an Era

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Cowboy Bebop series, and nothing of the Dark Tower series. They are two very different, yet powerful series, and this is merely my tribute to them.

Edit: 5/20/06

I noticed that my disclaimer was horridly incorrect, so this is my apology to my faithful readers. The true timeline for the events of this story begin at a good space of time after the events in Little Sisters of Eluria, and will end a good space of time before The Gunslinger. As of this writing, Spike is the only character from Cowboy Bebop in this story, but don't rule out the possibility of other characters popping up here and there.

I did some slight editing to this chapter, mostly because I wrote it without a clear idea of where I wanted to take the story. Now I know. Also, I embellished some details of the final fight with Vicious, mostly because I wanted it to be more of a showcase for Spike's abilities. I haven't made any serious changes, though, so don't worry too much about that.

Oh, and I finally changed the name of Spike's gun to Jericho. Heh, oops.

Now that that's out of the way, here it goes!

* * *

MidWorld Jazz

Chapter 1: The End of an Era

The rubble was everywhere. Scattered by the explosion that still shook the massive building even to its lowest basement level, the room now resembled a war zone rather than a place of business, shady or otherwise. There were chunks of ceiling, roof, wall, floor, and furniture scattered like building blocks in a giant's playroom. One piece was almost as large as the Swordfish.

It seemed that there were shards of glass and chunks of concrete strewn everywhere except for one long strip down the middle of the room; a grand staircase with a red carpet stretching all the way to the top. A few basketball-sized fragments rested about the sides, and there was an inevitable dusting of pebble-size particles, but it seemed the entire stretch of velvety redness was immune to pollution. Almost.

This room, at one time, served as the headquarters of the Red Dragon crime syndicate. No more than forty-eight hours ago, twelve or more elders (if anyone in history ever met that description, they did) would have sat in line, overseeing the procession of issues that needed their attention. Thanks to a man who called himself Vicious, however, that paradigm had changed. It seemed that the darkest hour for the syndicate was nigh.

Salvation, soon coming, would be short but sweet.

If anyone in that room had been able to avoid injury from the falling debris, (not to mention the explosion itself) one would have seen two lone figures, standing like sentinels over this fallen place. One at the bottom of the stairs, one at the top.

Unless you were someone who was familiar with the bounty hunter community, or perhaps a wanted criminal, you probably didn't recognize the man at the bottom of the stairs. He stood with a confident, but slightly skewed stance, most likely due to a recent injury. His blue suit, presentable at one time, was stained a light shade of purple in quite a few places. The newest, darkest stain was spreading over his left sleeve and down his side. It was barely visible behind the cover of a large overcoat that he wore. Its bulk helped convey the illusion of a healthier disposition. A Jericho 941 was in his right hand.

The gun seemed destined to take out the man on the stairs. Vicious' attire was that of a man who was precise and demanding about everything in his life, not least of which were his goals and lust for power. He wore black, with a cape of a lighter shade shrouding his shoulders. It was as stark as anything he'd ever done in his life. Vicious was not old, yet his hair appeared to be the gray of a septuagenarian. That hair usually flowed into his sharply lined face, hiding his severe features. His eyes were that of a wounded but still vital predator. Many a death and many pints of blood had passed in front of those eyes, and the gaze they carved into the air immediately in front of them seemed to tell the whole story. A man of war, most would assume. They would be correct. No injuries altered the stance of the man on the stairs, yet he embodied the imminent mortality he so often forced upon his less fortunate subjects. His right hand held not a firearm, but a weapon of the old times. A weapon of grace, sophistication and honor. A weapon of such severe lines, precise singular use, and wonderfully horrible efficiency that it perfectly matched the personality of the man wielding it. A misguided ray of sunshine made its way through the shattered ceiling, glinting off the carefully polished blade.

The man in blue raised his gun. His eyesight, along with his stance, was skewed. His journey from the lobby of the building to this room had been quite trying. In any event, his determination won out as it usually did, and he fired at the man with the cape. Every shot missed its intended location, ricocheting off the girders and braces of the wall behind him. The man in blue then rushed Vicious, bounding up the stairs two, then three steps at a time. The man in blue raised his gun once more, now just a few feet from his enemy. Vicious ducked and rolled behind the man in blue, skirting the shot and placing himself in a position to deliver a strike of his own. Blue whirled to meet that shot, blocking the sword with the trigger guard of his trusty Jericho. Vicious kicked him in the side, sending him sprawling to the ground. Blue regained his footing in a crouched stance, then rolled to the right, training the sights once more on his former friend's head. Vicious performed a duck-and-roll as well, rolling behind the ruins of a large, throne-like chair. Blue ran behind it from the other side. He crouched and fired twice more, both rounds missing their mark, seeing as how Vicious had already rolled back to the front of the throne. Blue rolled back to the front of the throne, standing upright this time, hoping to catch his quarry off-guard. Instead, each man found himself caught in a checkmate. Blue's gun was pointed straight towards Vicious' heart, (if he still had one) whose sword was now poised to slice Blue open like a Thanksgiving turkey.

The two regarded each other for a brief but agonizing moment. Right then, with death no longer a question but an imminent certainty for both men, it was nearly unfathomable that they were once close friends, almost brothers. Not only were they both equally matched in weaponry and equally skilled in advanced fighting techniques, but it seemed that they shared an unspoken connection that wasn't quite yet severed. The standoff proved that these men had indeed fought beside one another as friends, but now shared only the bitterest of rivalries. They now fought against each other because of the very syndicate to which they had once been members.

Blue, knowing the end was unavoidable, gave one of his trademark grins which was returned by Vicious with an unchanged glare of determination. Vicious, true to his name, struck first. The arc of his weapon was thrown off slightly, for in the split second after, Blue had taken his final shot. The slug shot right through Vicious' chest, exiting his body followed by a long streak of blood. The sword was deterred by the slug, but only slightly; instead of halving Blue, it mortally wounded him, cutting through clothes, skin, and vital organs as if they were paper.

Vicious dropped his Katana and fell onto his back, instantly dead from Blue's bullet. His head made contact with a chunk of steel beam, a hollow 'tonk' echoing throughout the ruined room; the sound of bone striking metal. His cold eyes stared up through the hole in the ceiling, the failing light reflecting off his corneas like a mirror of the sky. The Red Dragons had now lost two leaders in two days.

Blue dropped his gun. 'No need for that piece of hardware anymore,' he thought. Victorious yet mortally wounded, the man in blue clutched his stomach with his wounded left arm. He made his way down the steps, but he knew he couldn't just walk it off this time.

"Whatever happens, happens," he had said. This time it happened.

He had survived through hundreds of bounties, thousands of police, millions of miles through space, and a handful of seemingly invincible fighters, yet the song had ended with the same notes it had begun with. His past was a muddle of sorrow and tragedy, culminating in the death of the one for whom he had searched seemingly for decades. Julia was almost free, almost cut free of the binds that had ensnared her for the longest time.

Alas, it wasn't to be. So it was for the man in blue.

He had made this last decision while leaving behind his two new friends, only to witness the death of three old ones. "Whatever happens, happens." Every time he had said it, he had come out on top. This time, however, he forgot to repeat his mantra. Perhaps that was because he ignored Jet's insistence that he let it go. Likely, though, it was because he had somehow known that this was going to be his last stand. Julia's death had been much like the female cat's death in the story he told Jet before taking off. Perhaps he had simply decided that without her in the back of his mind to fuel his ambitions, to color his memories, to bring his future into focus, he had nothing left to motivate himself. He no longer had the will to survive that saved him countless times before.

His last steps were down the stairs he had previously sprinted upwards, towards his destiny. By this time, a small crowd of Syndicate lackeys and guards had gathered at the base of the stairs, trying to figure out what caused the war that was raging above their heads. They had seen the final strike delivered by their new leader. They had seen him fall. And they had seen this man emerge victorious. Confusion was the rule of the day. The man before them was at one time a member of the Syndicate. He staged his own death, and became a rogue cowboy. He was one of many suspects of the recent coup of the Syndicate, but now he stood before them as slayer of the true guilty party. What course of action should they take? Kill him? Congratulate him? Promote him? Fortunately for the men, the decision wasn't theirs to make.

The man in blue stopped for a second, taking in the scene. Even he still couldn't believed it had really happened. Not yet, anyway. He saw the confused, shocked faces of the men before him. For all intents and purposes, he was now the leader of the very Syndicate that he had lost his right eye trying to escape. More importantly, though, he had won. He set out to kill Vicious, not entirely expecting to succeed. In a way, he did. A smile crossed his face for the last time.

He pointed his finger in the shape of a gun towards the door fifty feet from where he stood. His last word was inaudible to the onlookers, but that was fine for him.

"Bang."

He said it only for himself. Much like his entire life, this moment was lived his way. Even though he knew he was leaving behind a loyal friend and a woman who loved him, he couldn't have made a better ending for himself.

This last word meant nothing. No symbolism, no big conspiracy, no key to a mysterious door, no beloved childhood sled, nothing. It was merely another one of his acts of defiance and rogueishness, meant to tell the world he couldn't be contained. Couldn't be caught. Couldn't be categorized by the cold, lifeless system the world had tried to imprint on its inhabitants.

He fell forward, sprawling on the stairs like the fallen soldier he was. He had never fought a true war, yet he was a warrior just the same. The guards were the only ones there to witness his last moment. They would most likely try to blame everything on him. After that, they would elect a new leader. Until then, they simply stood. The gravity of the situation had a slow and easy time making its way inside their minds.

The last rays of the Martian sunset fell upon the tattered coat of the man lying on the stairs, and all was right with the world.

* * *

Cool. That feels better now. 


	2. Aleki Blues

I'm back! It's been a while, but I feel as if this story is good enough to live through the wait. Y'all certainly think so, especially Hell on Stilts. I noticed how fervent you are getting, so I'm going to release this short chap just to whet the appetites a bit. Anyway, Jezarro, I wholeheartedly agree, although that particular interaction might be a touch difficult. You'll see why in this chapter, or maybe in the next. Big D1, you're on the wavelength, so you'll undoubtedly enjoy this chapter. Thanks for the heads- up about the gun name. I won't forget again. ^_^ Also, I've changed a few things about the setting of the story, so I'd guess that any or all expectations of where this story would have gone will be summarily shattered. Namely, this will be set right after the Litte Sisters of Eluria. Believe me, though, it's for the best, as Wolves changes things considerably (buy it right now. :)) To get on with the necessaries, I'll go ahead and disclaim the story of Roland, as well as the story of Spike. Because they're not mine. Ok, here goes. Hope you like it.  
  
Aleki Blues  
  
It was already faded and dreamlike from his mind. Some things might have lasted, but others disappeared immediately; this was somewhere in between. Only two short weeks had passed since he had left the (somewhat) abandoned town of Eluria behind, but the gunslinger had already forgotten the finer details. Soon, the larger, more prominent ones would go, and shortly following, the entire experience itself would be as phantom-like as the bedside songs Gabrielle, his mother, used to sing to him all those nights ago.  
  
And he wouldn't have it any other way.  
  
Revering Sister Jenna with any sort of memory would be little more than a painful burden. Besides, he still had the necklace, and maybe that was all he really needed. Everything else considered, his time spent in Eluria was probably best forgotten.  
  
For that matter, most of his time spent anywhere lately would be best forgotten.  
  
Take the present. Although he was quite far from the Mohaine Desert, he could still feel the dry, soul-sucking heat that characterized it, yet the aridity wasn't sufficient enough to choke out the evasive yet full-bodied stench of the ever-increasing clumps of devil-grass. It seemed that they grew more numerous as the water supply grew more desperate.  
  
He had recently lost yet another noble steed on his path to the Tower, and his most amply filled waterskin was getting lighter and lighter with every step the gunslinger took.  
  
More desperate than that, however, was the fact that he was nearly out of ammo.  
  
As always, he thought nothing of this; Ka would always make a way for him, no matter how dire the situation made itself out to be. This moment was no exception, as the gunslinger was almost certain that he was approaching a town. An occasional faintly outlined coach track half wind-covered in a patch of softer sand, a piece of waste from a band of riders, or a dark glimmer on the horizon would taunt him into thinking so before, but this time he knew it to be true.  
  
As he was studying the wavering, undulating smear of a town on the otherwise untouched dunes, another spot materialized no more than a mile in front of it as he crested the low rise in front of him. The spot might be an abandoned coach, an abandoned mine shaft, or even an abandoned dwelling. The gunslinger chuckled to himself, hearing the ever-present voice of Cort in the back of his mind, saying "Whatever it might be, maggot, the bottom line is that it's going to be abandoned." Roland was inclined to agree, not just because the voice of his beloved teacher had said so, but because the look of the surrounding area suggested, practically screamed that nothing of value was to be gained by sticking around. No viable ground; it was rocky and loose, no easily accessed water supply, and smack in the middle of a rough-travelled country. Even so, the gunslinger decided to give this little remnant of a very moved-on world a once-over before he entered the town. This was an easy decision, seeing as how the abandoned spot was about three miles away, and was positioned in a straight line between the gunslinger and the town.  
  
It was near impossible to avoid, given the situation.  
  
He took a short, half-hearted pull from his nearly empty waterskin, surveying the position of the sun as he did so. He estimated that it was four in the afternoon. Just enough time to reach the town before the light failed, give or take however much time investigating the abandoned spot would demand. If anything, he might just spend the night there, wanting to waste no time meeting the town's populace before retiring. Eluria had at least given him that much caution.  
  
A tiny, almost apologetic feeling of excitement--maybe it was anticipation, maybe the dread of finding yet another pile of wood and woe, maybe it was Ka, who knows?--filled the gunslinger's head, resolving his will to at least try to get there before dark. The chance for something new, nay, just different from this, was enough justification for resolve nowadays. The world had indeed moved on. So had Roland.  
  
Ignoring any upswellings of memory or forethought, the gunslinger reshouldered the waterskin, and resumed his march towards the town, the abandoned spot firmly fixed in his always-true sights.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Alrighty. If it was good, tell me. If it was crap, tell me harder. ^_^ 


	3. Shuffle and Sand

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Cowboy Bebop, and nothing of the Dark Tower. I'll make something of my own someday that will probably be fanfic'd on this site, but for now, I'll just fic others. Enjoy.  
  
Shuffle and Sand  
  
The man in the blue suit suddenly woke up in an oven of a room. Actually, it was more of a hastily constructed shack, one whose rough-plank walls that were once spaced evenly, almost fittingly, and now allowed tall slivers of light to meander their way through the various holes and gaps in the rough-hewn wood. In a few places, the slats looked like they were recently replaced, and in others, there looked to be a more widespread and lackadaisical approach to the maintenance (or deconstruction) this shack so desperately needed. He propped himself up on his right elbow, feeling a bit groggy, rubbing his tousled hair in a haze of dusty brightness. He reached in his inner pocket for his cigarettes, only to find that the pack was empty. He had smoked the last one somewhere else, somewhere quite far from here, in a place and time he neither remembered nor cared about.   
  
A place that was worlds away from here.   
  
"Hmm. Looks like my luck follows me everywhere," he deadpanned as he shakily got to his feet. He stretched his back to no effect, as he neither felt the sweet pangs of a spine readjusting itself, nor felt like he needed it, upon further observation. He actually felt quite good, considering his surroundings. Then he finally noticed the strangeness of this place, the sheer amount of dust in this place, the unexpectedness of this place. All of this observation warranted a bit of investigation to back it up, to make any sense of it all. He slowly looked about him, letting every detail great or tiny soak into his mind. It was all a charade, he knew, because for one thing, this place was easy to figure out; desert, or a reasonable replica of it, dominated the entire surrounding area. For another, he knew he was primarily trying to figure out how he had gotten from the top floor of a none-too-modest skyscraper in the middle of a massive city to a quite modest shack in the middle of what promised to be nowhere. The type of nowhere as in Nowhere Special, Nowhere to Go, and—most appropriately—Nowhere I'd Want to Be.   
  
He smirked at this last in the quasi-dimness of the shack's paltry shelter. He was glad that he was still able to see the lighter side of dark things, glad that he still felt like himself, glad that he was  
  
(alive)  
  
able to keep a cool head in the midst of one more unusual situation in a long line of them.   
  
For him, of course, "unusual" always meant either dangerous, deadly, or flat-out weird. This situation seemed only to fit two of those three thus far, and that wasn't too bad. But hey, he just got here. Who knows what weirdness lay beyond these wooden walls? What dangers? What peril?  
  
"Whatever happens, happens," he murmured, the trademark grin noticeably absent from his statement of general disregard, despite a meager attempt to resurrect it. Somehow, he felt as if those words changed meanings for him, not only with their intent but also their inherent consequence. What's more, they seemed to echo in his mind, each mental reverberation bringing back a flood of fuzzy, disconnected images with it, each one fuzzier and more disconnected than the last.   
  
It didn't take very much effort for him to quell the flood of input, partly because the images didn't help him in this place, at least to any immediately discernable effect, but mostly because he knew that they would most likely hinder him with the guilt of dark deeds long ago fulfilled, the memory of things best left forgotten, or the feelings for   
  
(Julia)  
  
people who aren't here. In time, those images, feelings and memories would fade away to nothingness in the dark, unexplored realms of his mind where not even hypnotism would bring them once again to the surface. Besides, whatever or whomever those feelings referred to, he had a hunch that he'd felt all there was to feel concerning them. No need to remember past pains if those wounds were meant to be healed or forgotten. He was content doing both for now.  
  
In an absent gesture of this mental filing, he scratched the back of his head, feeling a few hundred grains of sand run their course through his suit. He jigged his leg, grinning widely when he saw the sand run out of his pant leg, covering the tip of his shoe. It was almost a metaphor for his mental stance; recognizing molehills for what they were.  
  
His grin softened, though, when he noticed that his luck wasn't his only inexorable trail mate. He also noticed that his luck wasn't exclusively bad after all.   
  
He had no idea how and he cared even less why, but lying in the sand, no more than a foot away from his shoe lied his trusty Jericho.   
  
It wasn't precisely his old, familiar Jericho, mind you, because somehow it had morphed into an ancient-looking incarnation—possibly even a different caliber—of itself, most likely upon reentry. Despite appearances, it definitely held the spiritual essence of his old standby. He felt that cold and emotionless—yet comfortable—chi call out to him, beckoning him. Slowly, he squatted down to retrieve it. As his fingers wrapped around the grip, he suspected that, like other things around here, appearances would provide no discernible barrier against familiarity. For one thing, his gun simply felt like it had before this trip, yet it was now a much-bigger .45 caliber. For another, it was now a big revolver instead of an automatic. For yet another thing, the grips were the same shade of red his old ship, the Swordfish was colored. The grips even felt like they were made from the same metal, textured and uneven in places, almost as if they were taken from the ship itself.  
  
He inspected the chambers, seeing with satisfaction that each compartment was occupied by a shell. He ejected the shells, hoping to see some lead despite the dimples in the middle of each firing pin. Like everything else, he only confirmed what he already expected. The small indentations on the firing pins, even in this screwed-up place, still indicated that each of the six shells were spent.   
  
"Oh well, we can't have everything, can we?" he asked himself as he snapped his wrist to the right, locking the cylinder back into place. Instead of the nice metallic SNAP that he expected, however, a strange muted sound made its way to his ears, masking the gun's hulking, practical appearance. The sound indicated that an abundance of grease occupied the gun's joints, yet it didn't feel or smell like that was the case. Like all his habits, good or bad, he filed this away in his mental archives. The next person he sees in this godforsaken place, he'd make sure to remember to ask them about it. Questions only led to unsatisfying answers, which oftentimes led to more dead-end questions, and besides, he didn't expect to see anyone out here. This place felt like the abandoned wastelands of Earth, or maybe the endless stretches of Mars between the city-craters.  
  
While filing these mental notes, he got familiar with his "new" weapon, pulling the trigger and fanning the hammer and drawing from his holster. Weird, he'd always called his type of holster as a side holster, but docker's clutch seemed to be a more appropriate label.  
  
His brow furrowed with this thought. It felt warm and tingly in his brain, as if meanings and associations of words he'd known all his life were suddenly shifting.   
  
He almost stood up before the faint sound of footsteps cautioned him. They were coming from no more than fifty feet from where he stood inside the shack. He squat-walked over to the wall where the footsteps were emanating from, peering through a gap in one of the slats, attempting to identify whatever or whomever was making them. He couldn't see much, because a five-foot high pile of wood and wheels lay directly in his line of sight. The failing sunlight wasn't any help either, as the sun's rays were at the perfect angle so as to obscure whatever wasn't concealed by the destroyed coach with a darker shade that contrasted with the bright desert landscape.   
  
He consulted his steel companion, hoping against hope that it would confirm that the approaching life form was just a drifter. No answer came, neither from his gun, nor from his heightened intuitions. He had the barest of inklings that whoever he was, he might just be sociable, and that was enough for him right now. Anything did, in a pinch, so they said.  
  
Besides, he never worried, not even in his  
  
(dying)  
  
last moments in that building so far away from here, where he finally  
  
(killed him I actually killed him goodbye space cowboy see ya later)  
  
found what he was looking for, whatever, whomever that may have been. Instead of fear, a familiar coldness washed over him, and he found himself once again seeing things that hazy slow-motion that's always remembered in fast motion. That veil of certainty felt familiar in this unfamiliar place, and he welcomed it by reciting his own bounty hunter's mantra, with his trademark grin finally back, and in full force.  
  
"Whatever happens, happens."  
  
Whew! I need to learn to edit myself faster! I might learn how to in the future, but don't bet the farm on it. I actually feel quite connected with my writer's self once again, so it's a very likely possibility. Also, I've been brushing up on CB lately, thanks to Adult Swim, and I've reread the DT series, up to Calla.   
  
Anyways, thanks for the reviews thus far! Don't stop now!  
  
-T.J. 


	4. Devil Weed Samba

Hello there. Wow, five months. I do believe that I've become the Reader's Bane. ;) Anyway, thanks for the support, folks! I'm glad to have a good little following, and I hope that I haven't turned y'all off with my massive delays. Hopefully I can break this trend and start updating regularly. And maybe I'll win Powerball.

One last thing to Chef Jet (appropriate name, btw) that's a pretty good idea. I'll have to re-watch the movie, but I loved it, so that'll be a fun little bonus. Also, as far as Spike's wounds go, well, you'll just have to read on and see. As always, ownership of both Spike and Roland, as well as their respective worlds and mythologies, goes to... someone else. Enjoy.  
  
4: Devil-Weed Samba  
  
As he crested the second-to-last hill just fifty yards in front of the dark blob that now looked like some sort of shed, Roland decided to eliminate unnecessary risk by staying there until daybreak. By the look of the sky, it was a half-wise, half-cautious decision, but Cort's ever-present voice removed all doubt. Just as the _commala_ always followed a fair-day, Cort's voice always followed doubt.  
  
_You want to stroll into town with nothing but your ears for defense, maggot? If you want to die, I can think of easier ways than that_, he growled. Roland agreed, although he wasn't so sure that the shed was as abandoned as he had previously thought.  
  
Between half-hearted gusts of wind, the gunslinger's ears  
  
_(Listen hard, maggot! Hearing's only half the battle!)_  
  
picked up crumbs of sound. Some were the dried-up crumbs that only the desert could provide. Others had remnants of moisture, promising larger pieces, perhaps even the whole cake.  
  
He realized that he had not only stopped walking, but had also squatted down and slowed his breathing. His body ached with thirst. It was the sort of ache that accompanies a good long day of wrestling your half-dead horse out of a gully, or dragging it for a mile before you realize that it had completed its journey to the clearing at the end of the path long ago.  
  
However, level four _khef_ allowed him to observe without stirring, not even in the depths of his bowels. He couldn't remember whether it was level five or six that promised total control over his internal organs, but he knew it didn't matter now.  
  
His ears had picked up the aural equivalent of a bakery-house.  
  
Sitting on his haunches as he was, his scathingly blue eyes were able to make out the barest outline of a shadow quivering between the slats of the shed. He heard what he assumed to be a very faint sentence, although the only word he could clearly make out was "ever." It might have been "whatever," but it was all the same to the gunslinger. His right hand was gripping sandalwood, just as he was thinking about pulling leather, but he decided to see just how low his reserves were before proceeding.  
  
Quietly popping the cylinder out of place, Roland noticed that he hadn't reloaded since his last encounter. Whenever that might have been he couldn't tell, but small amounts of oxidization at the rim of each spent shell's firing pin said that it was quite a while ago indeed. The weapon's brother told a similar story, aside from two shells' worth of discrepancy.  
  
The good fortune extended to Roland's gunbelt, and the addition of all unspent shells lodged in leather with the ones lodged in steel totaled a sum that suggested a diplomatic approach.  
  
Failing that, a "shoot-first, tell the priest tomorrow" method might have to suffice.  
  
After loading his guns with all four shells, Roland chose the former option. After all, backing words with lead was much safer than doing vice versa. Even so, he thought it best to approach with casual body language and instincts on full alert. People who dwell amongst the dunes often resort to the weed when trouble looms, and out here, that's most likely to happen on a daily basis.  
  
_Smelling leads to smoking, smoking leads to chewing. Devil Weed's nothing more than a shortcut to the Clearing_  
  
Not that Roland couldn't make that shortcut even shorter. He had four one- way tickets to that fabled clearing, and in a different situation, that number would have been four times more than adequate. However, with this lack of knowledge concerning the enemy, it might prove to be a fatal deficiency.  
  
The last full orb of the sun seemed to set the wooden walls of the shed on fire as he approached it, thereby reducing his ability to see that which dwelt beyond. Passing within three feet of what the gunslinger assumed to be the shed's door, he was nearly convinced that it was abandoned after all.

Roland's instincts suddenly shouted in his mind, thinly disguising themselves with Cort's rough voice. _Diplomacy? You make me sick, maggot. Weed may be a shortcut, but trying to fight with words is nothing short of Ka Mai's worst folly_, he growled. The gunslinger stopped in his tracks. His instincts yelled at him to turn around, but he resisted them.  
  
"Don't turn around," a voice said, no more than ten feet behind the gunslinger. The voice had the calm of Alain with the subtle joviality of Cuthbert.  
  
Cort laughed bitterly in Roland's mind.  
  
That was fun. Oh, don't worry, Roland is safe. Spike however, well, you'll just have to tune in. Aren't I evil?  
  
Thanks again for reading! -T.J.


	5. Tower Tango

Chapter 5: Tower Tango

Roland could see the barrel of the gun pressing into the back of his head even clearer than he could feel it. The yawning .45 caliber maw swallowed light just as efficiently as it spewed thunder and lightning. It had a dark, yet cold blue shade. The steel _felt_ cold as well, despite the heat of the desert. This was no salvaged and cobbled harrier's gun, this was the weapon of a gunslinger. He wanted to turn around with everything inside of him, but his instincts wouldn't allow it. Instead, he spoke two words that were both a surprise and a relief to the man behind the gun.

"Hile, gunslinger."

To Roland's unease, the man said nothing. There was a pause long enough to drive

(the Bebop)

a caravan of buckas through. Roland began to think the man with the gun either had no knowledge of the High Speech, or had no intention of listening to someone who did. In Roland's head, Cuthbert suddenly chimed in, his jovial yet maniacal voice matching his tone when he had clocked Roland back at the Bar K. _Mayhap he isn't a gunslinger at all. Mayhap he was sent west by Cort, then ambushed a gunslinger for the piece he now holds to your noggin. Ever think of that, cully?_

He began to think hard about this possibility, but the man quickly disproved it.

"Gunslinger, huh? I've been called worse in my life," the man said, a small smile in his voice just sane enough to ease Roland's mind considerably. "I'm more of a bounty hunter, but as you can see, this isn't the first time I've used a gun. I guess in this place, that would make me a gunslinger."

Roland could sense that the man behind the gun had lost some of his initial focus, and that was all his instincts needed. He sidestepped to his right, (in a distant part of his mind, he could hear his near-empty waterskin hitting the ground behind him) then drew both guns, training them on the man's chest. He was amused to see that, either because of a lack of ammunition or a lack of information, he didn't fire a shot. _Just like an unbroken horse, you never know which way your instincts will lead you._ Cuthbert's voice said. _The hard part is that sometimes, you'll hang on anyway, ignoring the danger just to satisfy your curiosity. _

Standing there with his guns trained, he was finally able to see what the man with the gun looked like, and it satisfied his curiosity just enough to leave him wide open. He was wearing a blue suit with a yellow shirt, and a loosened black tie encircled his neck. His boots looked like the ones on Roland's feet—broken, dusty, trailworthy—yet they were the same shade of blue as his suit. He appeared lanky yet graceful, tall but not ungainly, thin but strong. His dark hair was a wild, yet somehow tidy sprawl; orderly chaos and organized discord. Roland could also see the gun he held in his hands. Aside from two key differences, it was a mirror of Roland's own weapons. First, the metal of the gun was the same dark shade of blue as the man's suit. Second, the grips were made not of sandalwood, but of a metal with a dusky red color that reminded Roland of the roses in the gardens of Gilead. His bombardier's eyes were even able to make out a guardian-like design carved into the side of the grip: a swordfish.

Before Roland could begin to think of what to do next, the man in the blue suit regained the upper hand. He moved his feet with a speed that Roland didn't expect, and before he could stop himself, he had fired two rounds. The bullets never came close to the man in the blue suit, instead splintering their way into the moldering wreckage of the coach behind the shack. The man in the blue suit moved with the same spooky speed that Roland had, and he was faster than most he has seen in his life. He was faster than Jonas, faster than Cuthbert, and even a little faster than Cort. His right boot struck Roland's left hand, and it continued forward to connect with Roland's right hand. His left hand was barely able to hang on, but his right hand was hit in just the right spot to send the big revolver spinning into the air. Before was out of Roland's hand one second, it was in the left hand of The Swordfish. _So this is how it feels to be on the other side._ He thought to himself. _Gods, what speed! _

The Swordfish, as the gunslinger had dubbed him, leveled both guns at his head and fired. Rolling to his right side, Roland could hear the lead missile bury itself in the sand behind his head with a toneless _thunk_. He noticed with some degree of satisfaction that the only bullet came from his own gun, and that it was the last live shell in the chamber. He was further satisfied to know that the gun still in his left hand had one bullet left. He fired it mid-roll, and kept the gun trained even as he stopped at a kneeling position, ready to fire another bullet that didn't exist. Instincts being the unbroken horse they are, the gunslinger could no more deny them as he could change them.

Instinct or no, this was one fast opponent. Bounty Hunter was what he claimed, but Gunslinger was what he embodied. Roland was able to see the bullet harmlessly rip its way through the shoulder of The Swordfish's suit as he rolled into his own kneeling stance, both barrels pointed once again at Roland's head.

For nearly a minute, they stayed exactly like this. They didn't move an inch, didn't breathe harder than was absolutely necessary, and didn't say a single word. Roland could hear the gunshots' aftermath ringing through his brain. He could feel the edge of The Swordfish's boot on the skin of his left hand. He could feel the invading sand moving southward in his clothes. More than this, however, he could feel the confusion and the bright, piercing glare that comes with meeting one's equal. Roland was neither faster nor slower than The Swordfish, as this scuffle had proven, but according to his own admission, he was not a gunslinger. A mere bounty hunter as fast as Roland Deschain, descendant of Arthur himself? Impossible. Even so, this last was a thought that stuck in Roland's mind like a grain of sand in an oyster. He decided to make a pearl out of it.

"Bounty hunter?" he asked, his voice rough with the dry desert air. "You'd call yourself such?"

The Swordfish was slightly taken aback, but seemed amused. Thoughtful, even. "Nah, I don't call myself anything anymore. Capturing a few bounty heads and collecting a few million woolongs made me a bounty hunter in another life. Taking a look around, though, I can see it's gonna be an even rougher road collecting bounties for a living in this place. Maybe I'd do better as a gunslinger, what do you think? How's the gunslinging business 'round here?"

"Mayhap we can palaver without the aid of our companions?" Roland said, glancing at the guns in The Swordfish's hands. The man in the blue suit considered this for a moment, studying the weapons as if he had never seen them before. He looked back at Roland, who only raised one eyebrow slightly as if to repeat the question.

"What the hell. We're both empty anyway, right?"

"Yes."

They both stood up slowly, lowering their guns even slower. Roland glanced from the Swordfish's calm, brown eyes to the sandalwood-gripped revolver he had taken, then back again, raising his chin in a subtle gesture: _May I have it back?_ He appeared to be suddenly reminded of having taken it in the first place, and flipped it around in his hand so that he was holding onto the top of the barrel with the sandalwood grip facing his opponent. He replaced his Jericho Peacemaker (_that's what it is _now_, so I guess I'll embrace it, _he thought to himself) in his docker's clutch, lifting the gunslinger's weapon slightly: _Come and get it_. Aside from holstering his own gun, Roland didn't move an inch. The Swordfish shrugged, then tossed the gun across the space above the sandy pit that could have once been a garden. The gunslinger deftly caught the gun with his right hand, then flipped it into position and holstered it in the same practiced, fluid motion.

"Nice move. You learn that sort of thing at the Gunslinger Academy?"

"Yes, in a way."

"There's really a Gunslinger Academy somewhere around here? I was only kidding."

"Not around here. It is… was… in the Inner Baronies. It isn't important. Does yon shack have enough space for a gunslinger and a bounty hunter to palaver?"

"I'm not sure there was enough room in there for me and the sand. Besides, here's just as good a place as any, right?"

"It should do for now, I suppose, but the day's light will fade quickly and building a fire so close to the town below may draw unwelcome attention," he said, cocking his thumb towards the town in question.

"What's wrong with the town?" The Swordfish asked this as his gaze shifted northeast, regarding the place with a look of increasing uncertainty. He had just arrived here, but every person he'd met so far was armed and dangerous. More than that, if someone who could prove to be his equal was concerned about attracting attention, he was equally, if not more concerned. Most of all, they were now two gunslingers with no ammunition. "The locals give you a lot of trouble?"

"It's too late to find out for ourselves, but mayhap still too early for accurate judgment. Our gunfire hasn't drawn them out yet, and if _ka_ is on our side, it won't. But if it does capture their interest during the night, I wouldn't give them a signpost to follow," Roland settled, cross-legged, as he said this, gathering his fallen waterskin with the rest of his gunna. The Swordfish sat down as well, and his countenance brightened considerably when Roland brought out a small drawstring bag.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Roland held it up, his eyebrows raised. The Swordfish nodded, and soon they were both savoring the sweet flavor of Garlan's finest crop. The smoke was much stronger than what he was used to, and tasted like it had been in that poke longer than he had been alive, but just one drag was enough to make him feel a little less out-of-place. In fact, he almost felt like he was back on

(_Mars, the Bebop, Ganymede, anywhere but here_)

earth again.

"Thanks. I needed that. You know, for some reason, I've been calling you Andy in my head all this time. I know I'm wrong, but I'd like to see how far off I am."

Roland shook his head, smiling slightly. This one was definitely the sum of Alain and Cuthbert. Perhaps with a little bit of Roland himself in there somewhere as well. His smile disappeared, suddenly flashing back to the day on Jericho Hill. Not allowing himself to get lost in useless and destructive memories, he forced himself to answer.

"My name is Roland Deschain, of Gilead. I am a gunslinger, but mayhap I am not the last."

"The last?"

"Yes. The world has moved on."

"Must've moved pretty far to make someone tough enough to take on _your_ pals."

This last caused Roland to flash back to Jericho Hill once again. It was only a brief revisit, but was still too long for his taste. "Yes, it has. Too far. Much too far." A moment of silence passed between them, as if in memorial to the world that wasn't yet beyond saving. "What name did your mother call out when supper was ready?"

"Is that some kind of riddle?" Swordfish asked, looking up at the darkening sky as he puffed the last of the diminished cigarette. He glanced back at Roland, who didn't look like the laughing type, and answered his question. "My name is Spike Spiegel, of Mars."

* * *

Thanks to everyone who read this chapter. I apologize for leaving for so long, but thanks to Sharona, I haven't forgotten about it entirely.

I definitely have a plan for future chapters, and although an ending isn't in sight, I do plan on finishing this story. Thanks again for reading!

-T.J.


	6. Demon Moon Dirge

Chapter 6: Demon Moon Dirge

Roland was confused, but he only allowed the tip of that emotional iceberg to surface. He had never heard of a place, neither bar nor barony, with a name such as Mars. He thought he heard the _name_ once before, but it referred to a place where _no_ man could have hailed from. No matter how far the world had moved on.

"Is your Mars a part of the northwestern baronies?"

"I couldn't tell ya."

"Why not?"

"I don't know what a Northwestern Barony is, that's all," Spike said, snuffing the cigarette out in the sand. By this time, the sun had completely left the sky for the day, and the darkening horizon was already displaying a vast menagerie of heavenly bodies. He surmised that the clarity of this sky revealed at least a hundred times more visible stars than any

(planet)

place he'd visited before, aside from when he was in the Swordfish. With the recollection of that name, a sudden rush of images inundated Spike's mind like the muzzle flash of his Jericho; intense, powerful, yet fleeting. Only a trail of thought was left behind, and nothing substantial was left, save for one piece of information. "I can show you where Mars is, if you really want to know."

Roland was skeptical, yet intrigued at this possibility. "I would know this, yes." Instead of showing him a map or drawing him a picture, however, he confirmed the impossible assumption that Roland had initially entertained.

Pointing to the horizon, Spike said, "It's the one above that deep valley. The red one."

Never turning to look, Roland merely studied Spike's face, seeing if it would change into the one he was expecting. Cuthbert had shown him this face many times, and Roland remembered each stage as clearly as a book keeps a picture. First, he would appear to be as serious as a physician telling a family the bad news about their loved one, but then a small smile would twitch at the corner of his mouth, and soon there would be laughter. The gunslinger expected this, but it never happened.

Seeing that his new companion wasn't going to look, Spike lowered his arm, feeling very conspicuous and awkward for the first time since he could remember. "I guess you've seen it already."

Roland responded with a phrase spoken in a language Spike had never heard before. He cocked his head to the side, a confused but intrigued look on his face. When Roland followed up with another indecipherable phrase, Spike said, "I don't understand what you're trying to say, but it does sound really fancy. Are all gunslingers bilingual?"

"So you're _not_ in league with the Manni folk?"

"I've never heard of the Manni folk, but they sound like an interesting bunch. Are they the locals you were talking about?"

"No," Roland said, finally looking towards the reddish spot in the quickly darkening sky. He stared at it for a moment, thinking about how such few people outside the influence of the Manni have figured out how to visit other worlds and other times. Perhaps in Spike's when, the Manni go by a different name, or perhaps by then, their secrets will no longer be secrets. Vannay, strangely enough, suddenly spoke up in Roland's mind. _Thinking about a problem is merely a fraction of finding its solution; action comprises the rest_. "Do you visit your Mars when you go Todash?"

Spike chuckled softly. "Okay, now you're just making stuff up." Roland kept his eyes leveled. "Then again, you don't seem like the lying type." He sighed, then, "I'll bite. What the hell is Todash?"

Roland was halfway through explaining how Todash was used by the Manni to travel between worlds, when Spike interrupted.

"No, no, no. Definitely not that. I was actually born _on Mars_. It's where I lived most of the time when I wasn't on the..." He hesitated, trying to chase down the memory of the Bebop. He knew it was there, and he knew what and whom it represented, but after the flash of memory a moment ago, the whole thing was just a blurry mess in his head. He had to concentrate hard just to make out its shape, but still couldn't quite see its name. He could still see the name of his own ship, so he substituted it. "…On the Swordfish. That probably doesn't even matter, 'cause I guess you guys haven't figured out space travel yet, right?"

Roland's eyebrows furrowed slightly when he heard the name of Spike's ship. How that name was connected with the charm carved into the grip of his gun would be the subject of their next palaver, perhaps, so he simply shook his head in answer to Spike's question.

Whether or not Roland's answer meant 'no, we haven't,' or 'no, we have, but just don't use it,' Spike decided it would be the subject _he_ would use in their next palaver. Until then, he decided to ask a few questions of his own.

"So this Gilead of yours, it's here on earth, right?"

Roland nodded. This answered two questions for Spike, the first being the obvious one. The second answer told him that, though this was earth, it probably wasn't the same earth he was used to. He began to think that he'd traveled back in time, but the way his new gun-slinging friend handled the concept of space travel and living on Mars told him that perhaps Roland wasn't the throwback that he resembled. Spike went on.

"The way you look, I'd also guess Gilead's a long way from here."

"You would guess correctly."

"Well, that leads us to the forty-million woolong question: what sort of bounty head brings you this far from ol' Gillie-add?"

"…The Man in Black."

"You're chasing the country music legend from the 20th-century? I mean, Jet was a pretty big fan too, but…" Spike stopped, both when he saw the look on Roland's face, and when he realized that he remembered Jet's name without trying. He still couldn't concentrate hard enough to see anyone else's name, but this was an encouraging recollection nonetheless.

"I have been on his trail since I left Gilead's gates. I _will_ catch him."

"I bet I can guess what'll happen when you do," he said, a somber note creeping into his voice. "It's a personal thing, isn't it?" He said, staring into the last of the purple light on the horizon, realizing that despite his short stay, he was definitely tired enough for sleep already. He thought it wouldn't be too long before he'd nod off, in spite of the fact that he still knew next to nothing about his situation, this "earth" that seemed to have no craters and a complete moon, or even the steely-eyed figure before him. Who knows how exhausted he'd be after tomorrow's activities? Who knew what activities awaited him? Who knew what was waiting for them in that town?

Roland nodded once as he looked off towards the town, almost as if he were on Spike's mental wavelength. Spike could see that this palaver was over, at least, in the Gunslinger's mind. It seemed that Roland was the type that could not be coaxed into very much introspection, certainly not much more than Spike had already gotten him to reveal.

Without a word, Roland began making his camp. He retrieved a small, flat piece of wood from the pile of bucka by the shed and placed it on an even spot of sand. He lay on it, adjusting it one time, and then he pulled his hat down over his eyes and crossed his arms. He was asleep within five minutes.

Spike was watching the town below while Roland bedded down, trying to see if any lights would appear as the darkness engulfed it. He thought he was able to see some flickering candlelight at one point, but he was unsure as to whether it was merely his expectations or the real thing. Either way, they didn't last long.

Deciding to simply lay in the soft sand was a decision Spike made probably because the sand alone would be softer. In truth, it was more likely that Spike saw Roland do it first. Even in a hot, barren world filled with gunslingers and Manni folk and mysterious towns, Spike Spiegel refused to follow anyone. Except, perhaps, for

(Julia)

one person in his life. He thought he could almost see her, but her face never appeared. Without really knowing what he was saying, he muttered two words to the sky.

"Stupid cats."

Feeling somehow lighter, more like himself, he smiled his Spiegel Smile, clasped his hands behind his head, and counted the stars until he fell asleep.

* * *

A creature that wore the darkness like his own personal cloak had been skittering around for the past two hours inside a building that was doing quite a bit better than the shack on yon hill. Every time he saw the ambling figure come into view, he tittered and began muttering the little rhyme to himself over and over:

"Charyou tree! Charyou tree! I see you, but you can't see me!"

Approximately half a mile before his quarry reached it, the creature saw a brief flash of light come from inside the dilapidated shack. He was even able to hear something like the sound of the Todash chimes, but these were much different. It sounded like Gan itself, speaking its will through the world. The creature tittered again, clapping his hands. He felt good enough that he did a do-se-do with the corpse of a middle-aged woman. Her back cracked with each dip, her head lolled with each spin.

"You dance divinely, my dear! No bunions on _those_ toes, no sirree!"

He continued for a moment before he sensed his quarry approaching the shack. Quickly tapping into the threads of the future, he saw what would ensue almost as clear as any vision he'd ever had. The creature's mood was elevated to such a degree that he dropped the woman's body like a sack of half-putrid potatoes. He cast a quick cloaking spell, just enough to evade detection but perhaps not enough to avoid it. Parking himself at the building's window, he gleefully watched, wishing he had some popcorn to enhance the spectacle.

The way things went, however, held almost no resemblance to what he had seen. Perhaps he had only seen what he _wanted_ to see, or perhaps he had only seen one way it could have gone. Either way, his mood was slightly dented. The two gunslingers (one of 'em is more of the Boba Fett type, though) had a bit of a skirmish, but the one in the blue suit seemed to have arrived without his six little helpers. When the creature in the room saw that they were starting to palaver, he snapped his fingers in consternation.

"Oh, fiddlesticks. Guess I'll have to deal with Cowboy Lonesome and The Gilead Kid myself. Care for another turn, darling?" he asked, scooping the dead woman back into his arms. Her head nearly popped off her neck during another one of his spins, and he lost his concentration for a moment. As he reached for her head, (in vain, as it turns out, because it was still connected by some flaps of skin) the cloaking spell wavered and the building's walls reflected a dim light for the briefest of moments. Nothing more than a match-strike in the grand scheme of things, but still more than he was willing to disclose. He froze in mid-dip, holding on to her hand like a starving dog holds onto a discarded piece of meat. He was listening so intently that the sound of the woman's head plopping wetly onto the floorboards sounded like a gunshot. He cringed comically, putting a finger to his lips.

"Now, now, honey! We don't want to spoil the surprise so soon, do we?"

He peeked out the window again, but only saw two men (who should have killed each other) bedded down for the night. He was worried for nothing! Even so, he decided the night's tomfoolery must give way to another night's worth of traveling. After all, Pricetown was still nearly two hundred miles away, and dancing the night away was not going to get him there any quicker. He stealthily made his way out of the little village, being careful not to be distracted by the work he had done earlier in the day. Sometimes, the creature would get lost in self-congratulations, and this was definitely not the time for that.

The beginnings of the desert lay before him, and he bounded across it with gleeful abandon.


End file.
